


Stockholm Syndrome

by aph_aleks (orphan_account)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Smut, Kidnapping, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/aph_aleks
Summary: Stockholm SyndromeNounFeelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim towards a captor.ON HOLD.





	1. Chapter 1

Paul awoke with a groan and tried to open his eyes, only to find that when he did, after a great deal of struggle, he still could not see. Everything was completely silent and pitch-black and he couldn't move his arms or legs, both of which were bound by a type of cloth - not a rope or wire, Paul could feel the fabric on his skin, holding him down, around his wrists and ankles. It hurt, digging into his skin slightly. 

His breathing sped up and he struggled intensely, thrashing his body around to try and escape the bonds he was in - but to no avail, they would not loosen and he knew it. If anything, they tightened the more he tried to escape. 

_ What the fuck?  _

He stopped every few minutes to catch his breath, but went straight back to trying to wiggle out of the fabric bonds he was tied up in. He then took the time to realise what exactly he was tied to - it seemed to be a bed, though he couldn’t see, it was bouncy and soft, presumably a double bed - he assumed from where his hands were hanging that it was one of those beds with the bars, as his ankles were tied to the end. He’d been lying down on an unfamiliar bed,  _ tied up,  _ for how long? He had no idea, but he really hoped it hadn’t been long.

_ Where the fuck was he?  _

Paul heard a creak, and then a small amount of light became his focus - somebody was coming into the room and Paul didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. He had no idea who it was and where the fuck he was and  _ why?  _ Why him? 

And then the light inside the room turned on, leaving Paul a little dizzy for a few minutes as he attempted to adjust to the new flood of light - something that his eyes simply refused to do. Through his blurry vision, he could see a figure in the doorway, looking at him and whether it be quizzically or in amusement, he was smiling at him. 

"I see that you're awake," He said softly, keeping that  _ smile  _ on his face - that smile was extremely alarming, seeming slightly crazed - this created an unsettling feeling in Paul’s gut. The younger flinched and tried to move away from this man, whom he didn’t recognise at all.

“Who are you?” Paul stammered, feeling this heart rate speed up even more so than before, pounding against his chest as he looked at this man. The man who  _ fucking kidnapped  _ him, the man who  _ tied him to a fucking bed like some submissive.  _

_ Kidnapped.  _ Paul would never have thought, honestly, never - he was an adult man with an average amount of muscle, strong-looking, right? Nope, he realised, he did  _ not _ look strong, and under no circumstances  _ was  _ he. He had a baby face, a feminine body,  _ long fucking eyelashes -  _ he thought about whether he'd been targeted before by people like this man, and yes, he was aware he sounded a little narcissistic, but he could not care less.

"Oh, honey, I'm John! You can call me," The stranger -  _ John  _ \- clicked his tongue as he thought, "Daddy. Hm?" He smiled weirdly at Paul, who moved back impossibly further, ankles straining against the bonds. If he could move flat up against the headboard, he would, but couldn't for obvious reasons. The younger shook his head urgently, waiting for John to take a step closer to him, to do what he was going to do. And yes, he did move closer, but merely to sit on the end of the bed, next to Paul's legs. 

  
  


"Why am I here?" Paul managed to get out, body trembling as the words left his lips, his beautiful lips. He shuddered, John's hand suddenly on his thigh, travelling up  _ slowly,  _ this made Paul's tears fall harder,  _ terrified  _ tears from a  _ terrified  _ young man. 

Paul felt sick to the stomach. An odd feeling adding to the mixture - his body reacted differently to his mind. While his mind was completely against what was happening, his body was shivering in silent, discreet pleasure, leaving goosebumps wherever John touched him. 

_ Who the fuck was he?  _

His name didn't tell Paul anything.

This was amusing to John, watching as he scared the younger because this way he'd do anything John asked, out of fear (even if he did feel a tiny bit of guilt for scaring the love of his life). He could also sense how much Paul  _ really _ liked the soft touches and caressing, his mind would catch up eventually. Through this amusement, John began to get annoyed. 

Questions. So many fucking  _ questions.  _ Paul should be  _ grateful,  _ fucking hell! John had taken him away from those people he called friends, the ones that did drugs and drank alcohol - they were obviously bad influences on  _ his Macca.  _ Worst of all, those so-called friends didn't appreciate Paul the way John did.

John  _ loved  _ Paul.  _ Cherished him.  _ Nobody could ever love him as much as John did - Paul was his everything, the love of his life,  _ the one,  _ even if Paul didn't know it yet. He belonged to John and only John, nobody else could have him - he was  _ John's  _ and John never shared what was rightfully  _ his. _

His hand left Paul's thigh and instead moved to rest on his lower leg, closer to his ankles. He moved it closer to the bonds, and in one swift movement, he untied the material holding Paul's feet tied to the bed. Immediately, the younger’s legs came up to his chest and he curled up on the unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar man. 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and cry and  _ get the fuck away from John  _ but refrained. Screaming would just get him in even more trouble than he was already in, and he really didn't want that. At least John had untied some of him, right? He hadn't hurt him yet, thankfully, but he still could. He  _ would.  _

They'd met once before this. Ten years ago. John had been working at the local record shop, making sure all the vinyls were in the right places and in order (they never fucking were, so many people put them back in the wrong places) - and Paul had walked in, out of breath and with a box of old records. They were all fuckin' jazz records, nothing important, and so John had dismissed them at first, but took an interest in the boy who'd presumably ran there - so he asked why he'd been running. His reply was a small smile, a smile John  _ understood,  _ it meant something along the lines of 'school kids chasing me to beat me up'. He had the records because he wanted to trade them for Elvis Presley, for Buddy Holly, for Chuck Berry - for  _ good music.  _ And though it was against shop policy, John let him. He  _ let him. _

Of course Paul wouldn't remember that. He'd probably met loads of people over the years. In fact, he  _ knew  _ he had. See, John had been watching Paul for those ten years since that day, finding out his school and after school schedule, knowing who he hung out with and why - he'd never been caught, though, which was fucking amazing. Liverpool was an amazing place. 

"Because,  _ Princess _ , I love you."

-

**hello! i'm alex! this is my first proper multichaptered story i've ever posted on here, as i usually post one shots and short stories. i hoped you all enjoyed this! i'll write more and post soon, hopefully. there isn't a post schedule yet, but i may try to form one later on.**

**if you would like to contact me elsewhere, my tumblrs are @panic-vetigo and @bittermacca.**

**kudos and comments are always appreciated!**

**~ alex ✨ **


	2. Chapter 2

_ "Fuck!" Paul yelled as he was tripped by something, almost falling flat on his face - luckily, someone caught him before he could. He was on his way home, sometime around seven - walking back from the shops. Usually, they'd be closed earlier than this, but today they weren't (due to popular demand from citizens) and so Paul had gone later than he normally did. _

_ Being out later was a little weird to him, as he usually kept to himself - as a 25 year old man, he didn't have a lot of friends or really anybody to talk to, so he didn't need to go out a lot. Only to go to the shop, family gatherings or to work, he left the house. Other than that, not at all. And though he did have a few friends, they all went to clubs and got drunk and did drugs - something that Paul didn't want to do. _

_ "Oh my, thank you," Paul thanked the stranger, looking at him with a faint blush dusting his cheeks, eyes averted to the ground. He heard a deep chuckle and looked up at the man - he was gorgeous: perfect auburn hair, full lips, sharp jaw. _

_ "No problem, love," Came the man's reply - he cleared his throat and removed his hand from Paul's - he'd held it while pulling him up to support him more (though he hadn't fallen down completely). _

_ "I, uh, I best be getting home now," Paul smiled sweetly at the man, making meaningful eye contact with him - the man enjoyed the eye contact and gazed into Paul's eyes in return, a stronger meaning behind that look. Paul felt strange. Everything about him was beautiful, but God, those eyes - they harbored a certain evil, a look Paul wasn't sure he'd seen before. An insane type of look, or glint, as one may put it. _

_ An uneasy feeling took over the strange feeling, and Paul looked back to the floor. _

_ "I'm John. John Lennon. See you around," John spoke softly, as if he was trying not to scare him away. _

_ "Paul McCartney." _

_ He started walking away, towards his home, but was stopped by that same voice, coaxing him to turn and face him once more - the uneasy feeling had gotten stronger now, eating away at him. "I think you dropped something!" _

_ And, suddenly, everything went black. _

  


Paul awoke in that same room the next day, head pounding - the light was on this time, and though it hurt, he was thankful for that. His eyes took a while to adjust, and then he was able to see the room clearly, the same man, _ John, _was sitting on a chair beside the bed. 

"Hello." John said, his expression blank, which matched the way his voice came out - the simple hello made Paul shiver with fear. 

Paul flinched, "Fuck you," He spat, yanking his arms forward, trying once more to get them free, but alas, it didn't work. John merely stared at him, knee bouncing up and down with anticipation - having planned out this exact scene in his mind. His funny little mind, full of unexplainable pictures and revelations, random words and phrases swirling, turning into something more. He had been planning this for _ ten years _, since they met, and he had Paul, now. He had him. 

"Don't speak to me like that, Paulie, or this will end badly for you," John licked his lips and stopped all movement, his knee stopped bouncing and his eyes focused on _ just _Paul, rather than objects around the room, "Apologise."

Paul moved suddenly again, pulling at his bonds - he hadn't given up the struggling, and that deeply irritated John, who took it upon himself to grip onto Paul's wrists and hold them still. "_ Apologise _," He repeated, grip tightening painfully around the fragile flesh of Paul's wrist. The younger hissed and tried to pull his wrists away, but failed, only resulting in John becoming angrier, breath hot and heavy against his face. 

"No! Get off me!" Paul yelled in reply, instantly regretting it as a harsh slap echoed throughout the room. His face stung, a soft pulsing feeling where John had slapped him. He whimpered and stopped his movement, stopped his struggling - then he was sobbing, wanting to scream for help, for someone to save him. 

"Stop crying. Stop," John hissed at the younger, staring into his eyes deeply, expression unreadable, though his breathing was coming out uneven (similar to Paul's). He was angry, definitely, but there was also something else there, too. Fear, potentially (although it didn't seem very plausible) - Paul also felt fear, all he wanted to do was get up and run for his life.

John lifted his hand to slap Paul again, but the younger cowered underneath him, suddenly-silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and he felt bad. _ He felt bad _wasn't the right way to put it - more like: he loved Paul, and scaring him wasn't what he wanted, at all. 

He was fine with hurting him a little when he disobeyed or shouted, but scaring him in the process? He wanted Paul to fall in love with him, not hate him for all of eternity. 

His arm fell back to his side and he returned back to his chair, sitting down slowly - Paul watched him cautiously, calculating his every move to figure out what would happen next. Every twitch of his hand had Paul paranoid that John would slap him or hit him, every time he moved his leg, Paul would assume he was going to stand up and hurt him (or something along those lines). Perhaps he was correct to be so paranoid, as he _ had _been kidnapped. 

"I want to go home." Paul suddenly blurted out, noticing the way John raised his eyebrow, once again making eye contact with him. He chuckled and leaned back a little, still smiling after he'd finished laughing, something that deeply disturbed Paul, though it was normal for other people - this was _not _normal. 

The smile soon left him too, the blank expression on his face making Paul feel even more unsettled, "_ This _ is your home now, James." A shiver ran up Paul's spine, hearing his first name being said in such an emotionless tone, with a voice that belonged to someone so… _ psychotic _\- it made him feel sick. It made him feel so sick that he had to turn away and look at the opposite side of the small room, tears still falling rapidly. 

The younger said, "How do y-you know th-that?" 

How _ did _ he know that? Paul hadn't once mentioned his _ first _ name - he had flashing memories of them meeting the night before, and exchanging names, he'd said his name. _ Paul McCartney. _ Not _ James _ Paul McCartney. 

Come to think of it, John had mentioned his surname also. _ Lemon? _

John… Langdon? 

_ Lennon? _

John Lennon? Yes, that sounded right - he remembered the way he'd said his name, and it sounded like the way he thought it in his mind. 

  


_ "I'm John. John Lennon." _

  


Perhaps, Paul was going insane. Perhaps he was going _ mad, _ here, in this unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar house with a man he had met merely once the night before. Somrthing about this was so fucking… _ insane. _ No, _ everything _about this was insane - absolutely mad; nothing in Paul's life could ever come close to this, to the fear he felt in this moment and every moment to come, every moment passed. 

"I've been watching you, James, for _ ten years. _I know everything about you."

"You're mad!" Paul shouted, spitting at him with force - the response he got was _ not _what he expected; he expected John to scream, or yell, or even hit him, but he didn't. 

Instead he looked at Paul. He looked for a few minutes and then away, and then back at him, and away again.

"True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?" He spoke slowly, very slowly, eyes darting between Paul and other places in the room, never settling, always moving. His mind was racing, Paul could tell, racing at an _ insanely _fast pace - he couldn't stop moving, knee bouncing again, eyes darting, hands trembling, fists clenching and unclenching. Everything was going fast, though his speaking was slow, "The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute."

John was looking at _ him _ now, and just him, eyes completely settled on him - _ fuck, _ Paul didn't know how he felt. Scared, yes, but other emotions were there too, not _ just _ scared - he was sad, too. Sad for John. Something - multiple things - had happened to him to turn him into _ this, _ into something so crazed. So _ insane. _

"Edgar Poe," Paul realised, remembering learning about him and the story he wrote - _ The Tell-Tale Heart - _in school, the story that he'd adored for the entire time he'd learned about it. How could he forget? 

_ What happened to John? _

"Correct."

"Why?" 

"Why, what?" 

Paul sighed, "Why have you done this?" 

"Taken you?" John asked, seemingly getting even more confused each time Paul spoke. 

_ "Stolen me," _ Paul countered back to him, the anger back - John had no right to do this, to _ take _ him, to _ steal _him. He'd had a life, a terrible job, but a job nonetheless - he had a nice house in which he had resided for a while, but now he was here. With John. John Lennon. 

"From _ who _ ?" John laughed heartily, "Your mother? She left you. Your _ father? _ He never wanted you - why do you think he doesn't talk to you anymore? Your brother, Michael, doesn't talk to you either. _ Who, _tell me, did I steal you from?" He laughed again, throwing his head back - his laughter echoed against the walls, having the same affect inside Paul's head. 

That _ laughter. _

It haunted him. The way it echoed and bounced off the walls made Paul feel extremely isolated, more isolated than he did before. He was trapped in a tiny room with a man who was completely insane, a stalker, as it seemed - he was broken, though, something that Paul could relate to. 

"My _ mum," _ Paul wailed, letting out a heart-wrenching sob, head hurting, heart hurting - he _ missed her _ so _ much. _ She was the only pure thing in his life, and then she _ died - _ he'd been so young. _ She'd _ been so young. He hadn't expected it; he knew she had a terrible illness, but he didn't expect her to die so soon. He didn't even get to say goodbye to her, his mother, who had bought him up and nursed him, looked after him. _ Gone. _

John's laughing stopped and he frowned deeply, "My mum, too, Paul, my mum, too," He looked down at his hands which were resting in his lap, "And my dad." 

"I'm- I'm sorry."

"_ Shut up!" _ John yelled, very suddenly. 

Somehow, Paul understood. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was really fuckin tired while writing this so if it doesn't make sense blame that
> 
> also pls leave comments i'm in need of motivation,,,

“Do you want anything?” Was the first thing John said to Paul the next morning. Paul, who had not gotten any sleep that night, looked up at him from the bed, instantly hanging his head back down in the same second. 

He didn’t want to look at John.

Through all the thoughts racing through his head constantly, causing a splitting headache, he could not get a wink of sleep. Sure, he was able to close his eyes and kind of  _ forget  _ for a minute or two, but then everything came crashing down against him, realisation and all that. Then came seeing things. After not getting a healthy amount of sleep for forty-eight hours, his mind had given up on him in a way - everything in the room morphed into something he’d rather not see; he’d noticed the coat he had worn the night he had been… kidnapped. That coat, gifted to him by his father before they stopped talking, was hanging on the door. The coat became a monster, a terrifying one - a monster that he hadn’t seen since he was a young boy.

He wasn’t as scared as he used to be, now that he had something else to be afraid of.

_ John. _

John sighed, “I’m guessing you want food? Or water?” Both of which he had, upstairs - he didn’t know what he had exactly, but it’s not like Paul would complain; he hadn’t eaten in two days. John realised he probably  _ should  _ feed and hydrate the man he had tied up in his home after a day of contemplation in his kitchen, it coming as a sort of revelation to him. Who knew keeping someone captive was so hard? And this was James Paul McCartney, whom he had loved for ten years - he was so sure they were made for each other - he kind of had to look after him.

Paul mumbled something very quietly, so quietly so that the older did not hear him right away. He raised an eyebrow and moved closer to Paul, “What was that, honey?”

Paul’s heartbeat hammered against his chest violently and his hands twisted with nervousness, clearing his throat, “C-can you untie me?” He asked, voice small and eyes wide, suddenly looking into his captor’s eyes - he could tell John was thinking about it, and all he had to do now was hope.

John’s gaze flickered from Paul’s eyes to the bonds holding him down and he nodded after a minute, smiling gently as he noticed the abrupt happiness appear on his face. He knew his decision probably wasn’t the best for John, but it made Paul happy, and that’s really what he wanted - if he tried to escape, he’d deserve it, but he didn’t deserve to be tied up like he was.

Ignoring Paul’s flinch, John leaned in closer, their noses almost touching. “Kiss me and I’ll untie your ankles,” He murmured, bumping their noses, lips parted - he wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe, until it’s all they could focus on. He was mesmerised by Paul -  _ gorgeous,  _ gorgeous Paul. His eyes were the most captivating of all - an amazing chocolate brown, full of emotion; he could stare into them forever and ever.   
  
“Hands too?” Came Paul’s reply, worry lacing his voice.

“You’ll have to earn my trust first, Princess.”

Paul, albeit extremely hesitantly, pressed their lips together. It didn’t last long enough to really be considered a  _ kiss,  _ but it seemed to make John happy, and John being happy was good for Paul. “If you behave I’ll untie your hands.”

The younger nodded once and moved away from John’s face, hoping that the older would not ask for another kiss - hell, another  _ touch,  _ Paul didn’t want to be anywhere near him, just being in his vicinity made him feel faintly sick.

John untied his ankles with ease. It seemed as if he’d had a lot of experience or practice in tying that specific knot, but Paul didn’t really want to know where he’d learnt - online? Maybe he’d asked someone? That must have sounded extremely suspiscious, and Paul thought that maybe someone would put two and two together and find him, free him from this place, from John. Though the older hadn’t physically hurt him other than that  _ slap,  _ he was terrifying - the younger had spent most of the time he’d spent in that room thinking about what exactly John could do to him, as he had lots of power over him. Especially in that situation.

What would he do?

Stab him?  _ Beat  _ him?  _ Rape him? _

He tried not to picture any of that happening.

“Would you like some water?”

Paul didn’t realise that he’d been zoned out until John’s voice made him jumpa and look at him with a newfound emotion - his thoughts, although disturbing, changed John so much in his mind so much that he was now completely foreign and unknown to Paul in a way he’d never thought about before.

He had thought, at one point, that John was just broken, that maybe the loss of his mother could help them relate to one another. He’d thought that everything that had happened, all of this that John had done; the kidnapping, the frantic recitation of an absolutely mad poem - all from a broken man. He had thought that maybe, because of this, he’d empathise with him, having lost his mother, but he couldn’t. He could vividly remember the emotions he’d felt then, when his mother was taken from him  _ so young,  _ he could remember even going insane himself, but he was nothing like John.

He was nothing like him.

John was big and scary, and Paul was terrified, but at the same time, he wasn’t completely opposed to being in John’s company. Though it made him feel sick and disgusted, he wanted more of John - maybe  _ he  _ was the twisted, broken one if this was true - he felt like it. Broken. He felt broken. And empty. And like he was going insane.

_ He was nothing like John. _

“Paul? Water?”

“Yes please.”

He was thoroughly impressed to hear his own voice come out clear and unaffected, even though his hunger had  _ just  _ hit him full force, making his stomach almost grumble loudly if it weren’t for pinching himself, which stopped it. He wanted to show no weakness, even if he was completely paralysed most of the time, zoning out at other times.

He didn’t understand his own emotions sometimes.

And then, as John walked out of the room, he formed a plan.


End file.
